Paradise Lost
by purplecleric
Summary: Wounds inflicted in childhood still hurt decades later... *Warning - this is another trip to the darker side of human nature - so some may find the content challenging*
1. Chapter 1

The sun set over the city; its golden rays burnishing buildings of steel and glass, bringing additional warmth to brick and brownstones. The light flattered New York, imbuing a sense of nostalgia to tawdry scenes and glossing over grime and grit, just as candlelight smoothes the age from a faded movie star. This beautiful transformation went unheeded, for the most part, by the inhabitants of the city. They were too preoccupied with the few square feet of their life to broaden their vision, but the sun set on them regardless.

Two of the inhabitants were no exception. Two men. Two very different men.

Mike called out a final farewell and stumbled out of the bar into the freshening evening. He was a beer over his limit, but it was still early and he was not on call, so there'd be plenty of time to sleep it off. Despite exhaust fumes from the constant flow of traffic, the street felt clear and calm compared to the smoky crowded bar, and he paused to lift the collar of his leather jacket against the comparative chill.

The pause turned into a dither as the extra beer muddled his thinking but his feet soon found their way, and he set off along the familiar streets that led home. His steady progress was hampered by further pauses; waiting to cross the intersection, a chat with the doorman of a local hotel, a high five to gangsta wannabe who despite his fearsome appearance was getting good grades at school, and a moment's commiseration with a fellow officer standing guard at a crime scene.

The scent of cigarettes from a passing couple prompted another pause while he lit a smoke of his own. The flare of the lighter lit up his face, darkened by the shadow cast by the building he stood by. The sun's dying rays reflected off stained glass, their rainbow shimmer catching Mike's eye and causing him to look up. A cross atop the roof of the church was thrown into silhouette against the deepening hues of the sky and a shadow of a different kind crossed his face as the flame died.

Unaware of the grim set of his jaw, Mike's steps were more determined, and there were no further delays, as he made his way home.

Bobby sat, absorbing the hushed atmosphere. There was the occasional squeak of a nurse's sensible shoe on shiny floor, a snatch of muffled laughter and muted sounds of serious conversation. But the predominant sound was of his mother's breathing; the drugged deepness of her sleep turning the sound to a soft ragged snore.

She'd been distraught when he'd arrived, sobbing out despair and resistant to all attempts to soothe her. Her feeble fists had beaten off his attempt at a hug and his face had tightened as a half-memory flickered across his mind. Her weeping had continued unabated until, at last, he could bear it no longer and had called for the doctor.

His own words failing to comfort, he reached for another's – grabbing a book from the stack on the nightstand and beginning to read aloud. Slowly the rhythm and lilt of his voice, coupled with the effects of the sedative, lulled his mother to sleep. But he read on, lost in the world of a detective from an era that preceded his own career. Only the changing colour of the pages, from clinical white to evening orange, hinted at the passage of time, until at last it became too dark to read.

He closed the book and for a moment contemplated the title. Death is a Lonely Business. 'You got that right, Mr Bradbury,' Bobby thought as he began the solitary journey home.

Golden –age glamour gave way to gritty noir as the moon rose, throwing the city into stark contrasts and unrelenting shades of grey. Cameras flashed as the paparazzi feasted on the emergence of the latest hot things from the trendiest spot in town while, just metres away, a bony hollow prostitute got down on her knees, feeding a man's need so she could feed hers. Dispassionately, the moon bore witness, without favour or judgement and its soft light stroked a sheen over all.

Moonbeams caressed two faces; one dark and deeply lined, the other greyer and weightier with life. Two men, rendered innocent and young by sleep. Two very different men.

Mike's feet stirred as his dreams recalled the heady flight, the breathless laughter, the triumphant faces of his friends. He rolled over to lay flat on his back as dream-Mike soaked up the rooftop sun, and the juices of the stolen fruit ran down his chin. The dream continued; a sliced- together montage of childhood moments, all framed in that afternoon spent playing hooky with his pals. There were snickers and secrets, boasts and bravado, the content nebulous and drifting but somehow comforting. Mike stretched out his ease, his usually wolfish smile more wistful now, and his eyelids fluttered as the memory-movie played.

Suddenly, dream-Mike shrank. Darkness loomed larger and larger, and in his bed, Mike curled into a ball. The darkness resolved into a huge figure, the midnight robes serving to highlight the glinting beads of the rosary dangling inches from his face. The rosary remained as the figure faded, to be replaced by a more lovely vision with a sweet smile that spoke in the familiar Irish cadence. Adult and child, both Mikes reached out, love and hope welling. Recoiled; as real and remembered, the double- whammy of rum and its punch shattered the dream state. Mike sat bolt upright in bed; panting, sweaty and disorientated.

Bobby's face nestled into the pillow, the weight of the down comforter snug. Dreaming, he was curled in his mother's lap, her arms holding him tight as she rocked him, the lyrical language of Italy lulling him further. All around him were patterns; striped shadows of blinds across squares of linoleum, the endless floral repeat of the wallpaper, the paisley whorls and swirls on her dress. Boy-fingers traced the intricacies, fascinated, and their older version stroked cotton covers in mimicry. He inhaled the scent of fresh-laundered sheets, but only smelled the Youth Dew of his dream mother. His body sank deeper into the mattress, heavy with relaxation, safe and secure.

The rocking became swaying became swinging, the patterns morphed and mutated, churning his stomach further. Adult hands grasped the pillow, dream hands clutched at his mother's softness only to feel the sting of a slap, to hear the lullaby of love turn to hate-filled horror, to plummet into the void. Bobby tossed and turned, hands clawing at the mattress in a futile attempt to gain purchase, to stop the fall. He moaned, giddiness increasing as brief images of sanctuary flashed past, tantalisingly close, before spiralling away. And still he fell. Bobby thrashed and floundered in an attempt to evade the nightmare blows that struck at random as he fell, not knowing if hurt or hope would come next. The twisted sheets tangled around his feet finally jolted him awake, with tears drying on his cheeks and a head still full of the sensation of falling.

And the moon continued its mute observation as two men paced away what remained of the night in different rooms, lost in different memories. Dawn finally drove dreams away, and two men showered and donned shirts and suits, the daytime rituals banishing the lingering remains of nightmares. Two men left, to face the day.

Two men who were not so different, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

The fog rolled in from the ocean, thinning in the warmth of crowded buildings, but thick and heavy over the stretches of water that separated the islands that made up New York City. Sounds were muffled, shapes indistinct, lending an alien quality to the landscape, and in response, the inhabitants were subdued and solemn as they went about their business.

Two men were no different.

Mike stood on the prow of the ferry and could barely make out the shores of Staten Island ahead. The raw, damp cold was making his nose run and he sniffed, as he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders in a futile attempt to drive away the chill. He was wondering why he had forsaken the warmth and company in the cabin to stand here alone on the deck. Opaque impressions of the dreams that had woken him twitched at the edge of his mind.

The ferry's klaxon sounded out in a muted wail; a sad and lonely call that stirred something in Mike. Shivering, he looked up as the cabin door opened, releasing a waft of chat and cheer as another commuter came out for a smoke. Even this felt intrusive, and Mike turned his back to discourage any attempt at conversation. The memories that had kept him awake long after dream images had faded were still fresh in his mind, and although the feelings they evoked were once again safely obscured, he still felt strangely removed from the world around him.

Mike's eyes searched out shapes on the opposite shoreline, hungrily seeking familiar landmarks, for once eager to reach Staten Island. And maybe his need to stand apart made sense on this day, this last day of exile. Maybe his return journey would be spent in the cabin, in conversation; symbolic indications of his return to the fold. And what a way to return – as a detective in the Major Case Squad, no less. Drawing in a deep breath of fog and fumes, the pieces of 'Mike the cop' dropped back into place and he turned to his fellow deck-mate.

"Cold enough for ya?"

Bobby shifted to avoid the fur of the woman's hat from ticking his nose, and that small shift started a wave of movement as the occupants of the cramped subway car tried to adjust to changes in position. A head taller than the other standing passengers, he watched in fascination as, subconsciously, they tried to maintain the illusion of some personal space. Other details caught his eye; the milky spit-stain on a wool coat, a lipstick smudge on a freshly- shaven cheek, the worn collar on an expensive suit. Inevitably he drew conclusions; the mother of a young baby, a newlywed, a once-successful man fallen on hard times. One thing they all had in common was the tired look in their eyes - tired from night-time feeds, sex and worry. Bobby knew his own eyes bore the same evidence of lack of sleep, although for very different reasons. His mind skittered away from what those reasons were.

The car was surprisingly quiet, considering its crowded state. Conversation was carried out in whispers, and a peal of laughter was quickly smothered and followed by an embarrassed, apologetic glance. Eye contact was avoided, and if happened by chance, was quickly broken. The mood was serious and introspective, and it reflected his own. The train picked up speed, causing the car to sway, increasing the somnolent state of the passengers and sending an unsettling sense of déjà vu through Bobby's mind.

To distract himself, he returned to studying his fellow travellers, and instead of seeing the similarities he shared with them, all he could see were the differences. Entwined fingers, clasped hands, a head on a shoulder, wedding bands and friendship rings, regimental ties and pins proclaiming affiliations. He wanted to take out his shield, wave it about and shout 'See, I belong too!'

He was still clutching his shield like a talisman as he pushed open the door to One Police Plaza.

Deepening cold crystallized the droplets of fog, causing them to fall in a flurry of flakes. And the snow continued to fall; covering the city, concealing the cracks, smothering it further. Here and there, patches melted away, exposing the raw underbelly, as if to remind the world that it still existed, had not gone away. The snow persisted, relentless in its quest to obliterate all evidence, and again and again the naked city bled through.

The snow was not alone in being relentless. There were two men. Two driven men.

Mike fed another stack of paper through the copier and gathered the still- warm duplicates into a fresh folder. If only the case was still warm. He'd spent the day tying up loose ends, clearing his desk, gathering his possessions and bidding farewell to his colleagues. One by one they left, but still he remained.

He lifted the lid of the copier and carefully positioned the photograph. He didn't need to look at the picture; the image was burned into his brain. In horrific technicolour the photograph vividly depicted the various hues that bruises could be against the pale skin of the scrawny torso of a young boy. Mike found the bruises difficult to look at, but found it even harder to look at the boy's eyes. An old mug shot was next; the boy's father but taken at a time before the boy was born. Mike remembered it had taken three of them to get the violent drunk into the cells.

Finally there was a 'Missing' poster. It had been a week before the report came in, and it was not the father who had called, but an aunt. In fact, the father was missing too, but nobody cared enough to report it. That had been four years ago, and Mike checked the John Does at the morgue and the hospital on a daily basis. He didn't see why he should stop looking because of a transfer to MCS.

Eames stuck her head into the office.

"Your batteries not run flat yet?"

The weariness in her voice made the remark sound more like a nag than her usual snark. Bobby looked up from the autopsy report and shook his head, but bloodshot eyes and a drawn face gave lie to the action.

"You head off; I just want to go over this again."

Eames shook her own head in resignation, knowing it was pointless to disagree with him, knowing that he'd work through the night if necessary. But this was not necessary. Sure there was a dead kid, but the perp was in custody. And the paperwork could definitely wait. Uncomprehending, she headed home.

Bobby reorganised the papers, putting them in chronological order. Reports from schools, child welfare services, ERs, social workers, psychiatrists, housing officers. Statements from neighbours, teachers and the first attending officer. Transcripts of interviews with the suspect. The confession.

And finally the autopsy report. And the photographs.

The close- up pictures did not show how small the child was, but the image in Bobby's head filled in the details of a young boy looking lost on the steel table. The last photograph was of the boy's face, of skin blackened by death and destruction. The boy's eyes were empty and flat in death but all Bobby could see was pain and confusion.

His finger stroked the cheek of the image. Why had the signs not been recognised? What had gone so terribly wrong? What made a woman turn so violently against her only child? Why?

Bobby worked late into the night trying to figure it out, and he carried the unresolved question home with him when he finally left.

The snow did not cease as if its mission was to render all that was ugly in the world pure and innocent again. Two men were the same.


	3. Chapter 3

White clouds fluffed and folded over the skyline, their edges tainted by gathering thunderheads; splashes of ink in milk stirred by the quickening wind. The gusts made the trash dance in the streets and whipped up grit causing eyes to run and cheeks to sting.

Mike surveyed his new desk. Some comeback. No feast for a prodigal son. Just a crappy desk by a crappy pillar, not even a crappy view. Self-pity pricked his eyes and he watched as the favoured one was welcomed into the captain's office. Policies and procedures offered no solace; too dry for distraction, not enough depth to safely bury his feelings. He raided the vending machine for something sweet to take the sour taste in his mouth away and discovered something far sweeter instead- the sight of Golden Boy Goren failing to elicit information from a witness. Mike tossed the bag of candy in his hand thoughtfully... and headed into Holding.

The fucking upstart! Muscling in on his case. Bobby quashed his irritation and accepted Logan's insincere apology with equally insincere gratitude, not even bothering to look him in the eye. He marched off to the morgue and the rising spectre of Nicole. Logan's 'dream girl.' Bobby swallowed another lump of anger at the flippant remark, needing to keep his focus, remembering how Nicole's comments could cut even deeper. Remembering a small skeleton.

Gusts became gales, tearing at the clouds, destroying any hint of former fluffiness. Icy blasts shook window panes as if trying to gain admittance and slammed unfastened doors causing a few nervous souls to start. Even those of a stronger constitution spent an uneasy night trying to work out the source of strange knocks and rattles and, as the night slowly crept towards morning, those imaginings became ever more unsettling.

Bobby was on edge, nerves stretched to the limit. The frustrations of the case were taking its toll; the confrontations with Nicole and the way she evaded his attempts at capture and coercion reopened old wounds. There was the hateful excuse of a father, who was too wrapped up in his addiction to bother about his daughter, except to use her for his own gain. Old wounds gaped and began to bleed. There were the pitiful bones, all that remained of a murdered child, and a pointed reminder of his failure to convict the mother who had created then destroyed her. There was another who had loved and lost her life to Nicole, another he had failed to gain justice for. Newer wounds, but no less painful...

Mike was on edge, his temper frayed. He was determined to prove his worth, that he deserved more than his crappy desk, that he was as good as wonder boy. He'd got a new suit, a new partner, a new case but the suit felt wrong, he's wasn't sure about Barek and bringing in Nancy and Sluggo had failed to impress the captain. Deakins had been even less impressed when another shooting had happened, even though they'd got a suspect in custody, and his rare display of anger had cut deep. The dead girl in the trunk had been a bitter demonstration of how cruel a mother could be, how far a son will go in order to win her affection and how much hurt he will endure to get it. The pool cue had felt good in his hand, felt better as he splintered it in two, felt even better as he thrust it against the fence's neck...

The wind dragged in darker clouds that heaved and boiled in the heavens as the storm brewed.

Another child lost. Lost to Nicole.

Bobby pounded the hood of the SUV, an insufficient expression of the pain and the rage he was feeling.

Another child lost.

Mike made an inadequate comment about pictures on milk cartons, as his mind ached for the boy he had still not found.

The girl's safe return provided no relief as Nicole's final barb struck home. Bobby reeled; all the mothers, murderers and madness, fathers and failures and children lost in his years on the job became his mother and her madness, his father and his failures, his lost childhood and all the pent-up pain tore itself loose.

A nod of approval from the boss was scant reward as Mike desperately tried to maintain some form of control. Nightmares were bad, memories worse, cases that that stirred both worst still but the feelings could be contained. The need for approval, the need to be noticed could be managed. But to hear those words... to speak them out loud... he resented his partner for putting him in that position, to force him to give voice to the pain, to add gasoline to an already roaring fire.

A fireball of fury looking for a place to explode, Mike barrelled out of the Observation Room and straight into the mountain of hurt that was Bobby, heading for the interrogation room and a private place to lick his wounds.

Taken by surprise, Bobby collided with the corridor wall, smacking his head. The jolt of pain by-passed his brain's higher functions of reason and intellect and shot straight into more primitive levels. With an inarticulate roar, he used his whole weight to shove Mike back.

Eames and Barek looked up in surprise, hurrying over in time to see Mike crash through the interrogation room door with Bobby close behind. In time to have the door slammed in their face as Bobby kicked it shut.

The door had not slowed Mike's impetus much, not with the full weight of Bobby driving him. He fell back against the metal table and there was a screech as it scraped along the floor, finally stopping as it met the wall. Mike straightened, a lock of hair flopping over his forehead, and he rolled his shoulders to loosen them in preparation. Dark eyes glinted as he sized up Bobby. Glinted like rosary beads.

Bobby's hand rested lightly on the back of the one chair still standing, breathing heavily, mouth dry. He was deaf to the knocks and queries at the door, blind to everything except the man in front of him, the man who had hurt him, the man who was everyone who had ever hurt him... Not a man – a target.

Bobby rubbed his eyes and half-turned away, an act of deceit to cover the way his hand tightened on the cold metal. Roaring again, he hurled the chair at Mike.

Mike ducked, reactions sharpened by the confrontation, and the door swung open to reveal panicking partners. Oh, no... if Goren wanted a fight, that is exactly what he's going to get and nobody was going to get in the way.

"Out!"

Mike punctuated his order with a further slam of the ill-used door. The snick of the lock turning dropped into the silence.

Bobby advanced slowly and Mike sidestepped, calculating. Bobby had a couple of inches on him and a few pounds, and there was his military background...

"Fucking whack- job!"

Mike tossed out the insult to test the water. He'd expected another roar, a charge as he poked the angry bear. Got only a look that said 'is that the best you can do?'

Eyes locked, the two men stalked each other in the confines of the small room, looking for the twitch, the tell that would give away the next move. Mike was impatient, had to poke again, used the gossip he'd gleaned.

"Learnt from your momma, did ya?"

Still no charge, only a measured look. Bobby drew on what he'd learned about Mike, put two and two together and in his usual way, made five. There was an edge of malicious delight in his voice as he rammed his retort home.

"Least she didn't pimp me out for booze-"

The words were barely out of his mouth when Mike cannoned into his stomach, striking hard and low, hoping to knock Bobby off his feet. Bobby had been expecting it and instead of bracing against the impact, used the momentum to swing Mike around and drive him against the wall.

Deadlock broken, two men finally gave vent to the accumulated frustration and hurt.

Mike brought up his knee aiming for Bobby's most vulnerable area but again Bobby pre-empted the move, twisted his hip so knee collided with bone. Furious, Mike stamped down hard on Bobby's foot following through with a punch to his gut. Reflexively Bobby loosened his grip which allowed Mike to slide past him but Bobby recovered quickly grabbing him by the throat and driving him back against the wall. Mike clawed at Bobby's hands, arms, trying to break the hold.

The two men grappled, nose to nose, toe to toe, sucking in the sour breath and sweat as they breathed heavily. Another deadlock, and in the pause, their thought processes kicked back in.

Two men realised how good it had felt to lash out, how good it felt to hurt instead of be hurt, to feel powerful. How exciting it was. Excitement that was evident in flushed cheeks so close they could feel each other's heat, pounding hearts in chests so close they could feel each other's beat, in groins pressed so close they could feel each other's –

The door flew open and two men flew apart. Eames had conscripted Petronelli and his heftier shoulders to break down the door while Barek ran interference with the captain.

"What the hell is this all about? "

Eames addressed the question to her partner, who was enigmatic in his reply.

"Nothing... everything."

Mike was no more forthcoming. He threw a pointed look at Bobby as he left the room.

"This ain't over – not by a long shot."

Overhead, the dense clouds finally became overcrowded, crashing and colliding. The crack of thunder reverberated through skies split by lightning and the rain began to lash down.


	4. Chapter 4

Bolts of lightning provided the illumination, claps of thunder the sound track, but the starring role of the storm's release of pent-up energy went to the rain. The deluge made a mockery of the common similes; no domesticated cats and dogs, the rain had moved into wilder territories. Puddles became pools became lakes, flights of steps became waterfalls, and overloaded gutters and drains quickly submerged city streets.

Two men tried to drown their feelings.

"Tough day, huh?"

The bartender hovered, correctly anticipating the need for a quick refill. He recognised the signs, although this customer was a stranger to him. Mike quickly downed the drink and motioned for another, not bothering to answer the question. He hadn't come here for conversation - that he could get at his usual haunts. What he wanted was to be left alone, to get his head around what had happened, his actions...and his reaction.

Fuck! What he wanted was another drink.

He slammed the glass down on the bar, and tried to get the bartender's attention. The guy should just leave him the bottle then he'd be able to concentrate without all this fucking around. Mike rapped his knuckles on the polished wood, wanting to ram them in the bartender's face, remembering how it had felt to drive them into Bobby's gut, how Bobby had felt –

"Get me a fucking drink!"

The bartender sauntered over, every step adding to Mike's impatience.

"I think you've had enough, Sir."

"I'll tell you when I've had enough. Pour!"

Taking a step back, the bartender shook his head. Mike swore and in frustration, sent glass, mat and a bowl of stale nuts crashing to the floor. There was only one way to resolve this. He slammed through the doors and out into the rain.

Bobby paced his living room, too agitated to settle. He couldn't believe he had behaved that way. Of all the –

His path was impeded by the couch and he shoved it aside with his hip. He was not generally aggressive, preferred to reason his way out of conflict. Certainly wasn't prone to all that macho nonsense. The footstool was next, sent spinning by a well-aimed kick. Oh, he could handle himself if needed, but he didn't enjoy it. _ 'Really?'_ his inner voice mocked. '_Some parts of you would disagree...' _

Bobby paused to swallow down the remains of his drink and headed off to the kitchen for another. The expensive whisky sloshed and spilt onto the counter in his haste. The Glenlivet, fifteen years in the making, was half gone in a single gulp, the smooth flavour barely having time to register on his tongue. He topped up the glass and, needing to move again, recommenced his pacing.

His mind worked furiously trying to reason this out, his feet keeping pace. But his thought processes kept stalling as he remembered the rush he had felt, how alive he had felt and how Mike had felt, squirming under the weight of his body.

The kitchen wall took the full brunt of the blow intended for another; its only crime was being in the way.

The downpour continued; the sheer weight of water rebounding off seething, streaming sidewalks, turning bays and beaches into a muddy morass and even managing to drown out the sounds of thunder.

It drowned out the sound of knocking at Bobby's door. Not that Bobby was paying heed; he was too lost in another glass of Glenlivet and inner turmoil. Eventually, the pounding registered and Bobby recklessly wrenched open the door, too far gone to give a fuck about caution.

The punch took him by surprise, jerking his head back as it collided with his jaw. But he was prepared for the follow-up – grabbing the fist before it could hit home, catching hold of the first and using both to haul the man across the threshold.

He wasn't prepared for the sight of a sodden Mike, tensed and tight-faced, dripping onto the linoleum. His stomach did a nervous flip-flop.

Mike took advantage of Bobby's hesitation; twisted and hooked his leg behind Bobby's knee, taking him down. Bobby hung onto Mike's wrists bringing him down with him and both men landed heavily. Bobby let out an 'oomph' as Mike knocked the air out of him, loosening his grip in the shock of impact. Mike tried to crawl free but Bobby grabbed at his jacket, dragging him back and rolling them over.

Sat astride Mike's hips to pin his legs, hands full of drenched leather, Bobby paused to try and catch his breath. Their eyes locked, the look loaded. Slowly Mike reached up, ran his hands up the sides of Bobby's neck into his hair. His hands curled, grabbing two fistfuls and he yanked - hard. Bobby resisted; the muscles in his neck and jaw taut as he pulled back, the muscles on his forearms bulging as he braced himself against Mike's chest.

Mike was now struggling to breathe, his lips forming a grimace as he pulled harder, feet trying to gain purchase on the wet linoleum, trying to buck Bobby off. Whether by will or weakness, Bobby relented, his head coming down fast, clanking their teeth together, making his lip bleed as it was smashed between two sets of hard enamel. Mike's feet suddenly found a grip and, not letting go of Bobby's head, mouths still mashed together, he rolled them. Bobby's back met the wall and he flexed, rolling them back and they wrestled for dominance.

Neither man was aware of when wrestling became rubbing, grappling became grabbing. Neither was aware of anything, they were too lost in the frantic frenzied fight-fest of clawing and clutching, scratching and squeezing and how much it hurt, how much they hurt and how good it felt. Mike sank his teeth into Bobby's shoulder, not knowing if Bobby's gasp was in pleasure or pain, only knowing it was enough to send him over the edge. Bobby had been on the brink, almost but not quite there, until sharp teeth gave him what he needed and both men drowned in sensation.

Gradually, awareness returned to two men; one awash with guilt, one with shame.

Mike hauled himself upright, still dressed but dishevelled, legs shaky. He staggered a bit and reached for the wall to steady himself. He was trying not to look at scratches, split lip and the beginnings of bruises. He was trying to forget how good it had felt to make them, how free he had felt, how he was responsible...

Silently, he left, to seek absolution in the rain.

Bobby sat up, and fished around in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sight of the blood from his lip smeared across the white cotton was strangely satisfying. As satisfying as the way his sweat stung in the scratches on his chest. It was what he deserved. After all, hadn't he failed all those children? He hadn't been good enough to save them, hadn't been a good enough cop, hadn't been a good enough son...

Wearily, he dragged himself off to the bathroom, seeking to cleanse himself in the shower.

The storm abated, its energy spent, leaving behind a trail of destruction in its wake. Ripped awnings, twisted fences, smashed boats and flooded basements were just a few of the things the inhabitants of the city had to face in the morning.

Two men had the aftermath of their own storm to deal with.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning brought more rain, the last final drops wrung out from depleted clouds. A more manageable rain, no deterrent to daily life, and the city's inhabitants picked up where they had left off, albeit armed with umbrellas and waterproofs.

Two men attempted to do the same.

Mike studied his reflection, looking for evidence of the guilt he was feeling, sure that it was written in large letters for all to see. A stranger stared back wearing his familiar face; a man with eyes a little darker, lines a little deeper, a man who had done things, terrible things...exhilarating things. He closed his mind to the memories, trying to ignore the stirring in his pants, and turned away from the mirror.

His leather jacket hung on the peg by the door and, as he reached for it, the wrenched muscle in his shoulder protested. When had he done that? The punch to the gut? The jaw? Or when things had got so hot and heavy that individual moves had become a blur? Still, a torn shoulder, like guilt, could be hidden.

The jacket was more of a problem. The leather was still damp and as it folded under his fingers it gave off the smell of sweat, of musk, of Bobby. The memories hit hard; the taste of blood and second-hand scotch, the sensation of skin yielding under nails and teeth, twin tumescence and that tantalizing gasp. Mike adjusted his shorts, the action becoming redundant as another memory surfaced – blood dripping onto the livid tracks torn through chest hair. The jacket made a satisfying thud as it landed in the trash can.

Bobby smoothed down the tape to hold the dressing in place, wincing as he put pressure on the twin crescents of teeth marks it concealed. He ran his fingers through the hair on his chest following the path of scratches, fading but still sore. He'd need an undershirt today. A day's growth of stubble was doing a passable job of hiding the bruise that shadowed his jaw but there was nothing he could do about the split and swollen lip.

He turned his attention to the rest of the evidence of yesterday's shameful behaviour. Crumpled pants and balled socks were the first to hit the laundry hamper. A shirt missing two buttons and spotted with blood was next. He tried not to look at the dried stain on the shorts, tried not to breathe in the reminder of what a willing and enthusiastic participant he had been. The hamper lid slammed shut.

Couch straightened, footstool retrieved, spills mopped up and glass washed. He chucked the empty bottle in the garbage, and after a moment's consideration, the ruined clothing was retrieved and followed suit.

The rain petered out and the sun made a weak attempt to shine. The city breathed a sigh of relief.

Mike slunk into the squad room, avoiding curious stares, hung his archetypal detective's raincoat on the hanger and went off in search of Barek. He found her pouring coffee and paused, unsure of how to begin. Silently, she passed him a mug, her cool look appraising.

"Thanks." Mike raised the mug in acknowledgement, took a deep breath. "And thanks for covering with the captain."

"It's what partners do."

Her eyes were full of questions that he didn't know the answer to, so he asked one of his own.

"What did you say to him?"

"A load of psycho- babble about alpha dogs and pack hierarchy. You need to chill out, Mike. Go out for a drink, get yourself laid."

Her casual comment was too close for comfort. Mike bolted for the haven of his desk, for once happy to be safely hidden away behind a pillar.

Bobby was more brazen as he strode into the squad room. His reputation meant he was accustomed to stares and whispers. He avoided looking at Mike.

Aware of Eames watching him, he hung up his raincoat – the one she always referred to as his 'Uncle Fester' coat. She waited until he was settled at his desk, his binder open and pen in hand, before she spoke.

"It's unlike you to be late in. You and Mike tie one on last night?"

Bobby looked down at his blotter. Eames misread his embarrassment.

"Ha! Hope you got it out of your system."

She scrutinised his face and he turned his head away in a futile attempt to hide the bruise.

"Am I going to have to give you lessons?" She laughed at the thought. "Cos it looks like you came off worst."

Not realising his hand had gone to his shoulder, Bobby hoped she'd let the matter drop, not sure he could face a day of her teasing, regardless of how gentle and good-natured it was. Deakins' appearance was a welcome distraction.

"Goren! Logan! My office. Now!"

Maybe not so welcome.

The entire bullpen perked up in anticipation as Bobby and Mike headed for the captain's office. Two naughty schoolboys called before the Principal. The captain closed the door, trying not to smile at the sight of his squad pretending not to be watching, to be listening. He turned to see the two hardened detectives standing with hands folded and heads bowed and the smile faded. He kept his voice low.

"We got a problem here?"

The quiet 'No sir' and its echo troubled him. He'd butted heads with Goren often enough to know how he operated and Mike's jacket was full of similar incidents. Deakins had been prepared to deal with arrogance, maybe even defiance, had fully expected to have to pull rank. He made a mental note to keep an eye on them, but decided to let the matter drop for the moment.

"Well, if you boys have finished your pissing contest, there's work to be done. Logan, you and Barek have got paperwork to finish and you need to liaise with Carver to sign off that deal with the Feist kid. Goren, grab Eames and head over to Chelsea - some trust- fund babe thinks she's picked up a stalker. Probably nothing but daddy's a friend of the Mayor..."

He handed Bobby the details and watched the two men leave his office. The fact that they had not once looked at each other did not go unnoticed.

The dull routine of paperwork was just what Mike needed. A return to normality. A chance to forget. The added bonus of Bobby being out of the building. He buried himself in the files.

A new case was just the distraction Bobby needed. There was even the prospect of having a little fun at the expense of the rich and powerful, something he always enjoyed and would be guaranteed to divert Eames attention. He threw himself into the investigation.

The weak sun gathered strength through the day and even managed to provide some warmth. The city relaxed, umbrellas forgotten.

Mike stopped on his way back from the courthouse to grab a hot dog. Lunchtime recess had been the only opportunity to speak to Carver who was in trial. Barek had spotted some missing forensic reports and they'd decided to split the tasks. Enjoying the feel of the sun on his back, he took a seat on the bench, pulled out his phone and began the daily ritual of calling the hospitals and finally the morgues.

"Actually, Detective, there is one who..."

Mike swallowed down the last mouthful of bread and hurried to meet the Medical Examiner.

The trendy furnishings that looked as if they'd come straight out of a style magazine were exactly what Bobby had expected of the Chelsea apartment. What he had not expected was the little girl sat on her equally stylish mother's lap.

Shelby Summers noted his surprise.

"She's the one good thing to result from my teenage rebellion."

Her explanation sounded a little rehearsed, her stare a little too direct as if challenging him to dispute the fact, and suspicion crept into Bobby's mind.

"After he got over the initial shock, Daddy's been wonderful. " She smiled up at the man in question. A smile that seemed a little forced. Bobby studied the man, fat and flushed with money and success, the trappings of his privileged status deliberately on show. Watched as the man stroked his daughter's hair in a proprietary manner, stroked his granddaughter's hair the same way. Suspicion turned to alarm bells.

Mike stared down at the teenage body; the evidence of a harsh life plain to see on the corpse's marbled skin. He didn't need to consult the worn photo in his wallet – this was the boy. Blood roared in his ears drowning out the ME's litany of injuries and a vein in his temple throbbed. The fucking father! If only he could get his hands on the bastard...

Mike stormed out of the morgue looking to vent his anger, looking for a scapegoat for his rage – looking for Bobby.

"You can't go around accusing one of the Mayor's cronies of molesting his daughter and granddaughter on the basis of your 'intuition'." Eames threw her hands up in horror.

"It's not intuition. You saw the way he touched them, the way they were together..." Bobby's voice held a note of desperation.

"I see a man whose vision is becoming clouded by his prejudice." Her finger was as pointed as her look. "I'll keep an open mind, but the focus is on the stalker. Alright?"

Bobby nodded a reluctant assent and skulked off, hoping to find somewhere to sulk in peace, somewhere to seethe. Hoping to run into Mike.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the sudden drop in temperature caused the city to shiver.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun's sudden vanishing act darkened the window of the men's room, turning sterile tile and chrome cell-block grey.

Bobby's fingers gripped the cold porcelain as he hunched over the basin; the image of fat, fleshy fingers stroking baby-fine hair churning a shit-storm within him. He didn't look up as the door flew open.

The sight of Bobby looking defeated and beaten caused Mike's anger to swell. Why didn't the man grow a pair instead of hiding his yellow-belly here? Mike pushed away memories of cowering in a bathroom, his little-boy body trembling. Dwelled on another memory; another little boy grown to the brink of adulthood, never to become a man because of the cowardly father who couldn't handle someone his own size. A father who had fled rather than faced what he'd done, a man who was not here - but Bobby was.

"You fucking pathetic excuse of a man!"

Bobby straightened, not hearing Mike; hearing his own father bemoaning his fate at being cursed with a son who preferred books to ball games and beer, remembering his attempts to please and prove himself on the baseball court, by becoming a soldier. Pain exploded in his head as Mike's fist connected with his already tender jaw and he welcomed the way it made real the pain in his memories.

And he welcomed the chance to do something he had never done – hit back. He did; the force of his blow sending Mike staggering back into a stall and, eager to press home the advantage, he charged in after him.

Mike stumbled, sat back heavily on the pan, the jolt snapping his jaw shut on his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth. Bobby loomed over Mike, thrilling to the feeling of threat and the power. He looked down at Mike's face, mere inches away from his belt buckle. Unsettling new thoughts of something else he had never done crossed his mind, and he watched his hand, a stranger's hand, reach out to touch Mike's hair.

Mike was painfully aware of the proximity of Bobby's buckle, of button and zipper and what lay beneath. In his mind, Bobby's dark suit pants became cassock, Bobby's gold tie pin became a crucifix, the sharp salty tang in his mouth another bodily fluid, and as he felt Bobby's hand on his head, he was galvanised into action.

He shot up, giving voice to a little boy's pain with a growl, and shoved Bobby away. Bobby fell back, his weight slamming the cubicle door, closing them in. Mike took a step forward, one step being all that was needed to bring him up close and personal, one step being all that was available in a space designed for one and now packed with two large men, pumped with adrenaline, high on hurt. Bobby searched for a means of escape, fear rising at the look of menace on Mike's face, at the sound of his voice.

"Think you're man enough, eh? You'll need a pair bigger than these."

Mike reached down, grabbed and squeezed hard to illustrate his point. Bobby let out an involuntary gasp which turned to a groan as Mike squeezed again. Mike's free hand clamped over Bobby's mouth at the sound of the men's room door opening.

The two men froze; listening to the sound of footsteps, of zipper, of casual whistling and a determined piss; feeling the rise and fall of their chests pressed tight, of breath mingling and lips dangerously close to a kiss if it wasn't for the barrier of Mike's hand; seeing the dare rise, doubled in dark eyes.

Mike squeezed again, feeling Bobby's chest swell with the sharp intake of breath, seeing Bobby's eyebrow quirk, feeling him rise to the challenge. He bit back a yelp as Bobby retaliated with a sharp squeeze of his own, the sound emerging in a low hiss that stirred the hair curling around Bobby's ear.

Now the heat was on to see who would crack first.

Bobby and Mike stared into each other eyes, searching for the signs of submission, finding only challenge and provocation, sharing the thrill as their hands became bolder, as the sounds of pissing was replaced by the trickle of water from a faucet, as chests heaved and cheeks flushed.

Bobby raised the stakes, his tongue flicking out to lick Mike's palm, and Mike sagged, burying his groan in the crook of Bobby's neck, inadvertently driving his chin into the wound left by his teeth the day before.

The combination of a flash of pain and the closing of the restroom door broke the spell.

Bobby lashed out, sending Mike careening into the cistern, making room to wrench open the door and flee, mind and body in turmoil.

Mike sank back onto the seat, head in his hands, mouth full of blood and bile, stomach cramping and mind churning.

The sun didn't dare to peek from its shelter behind the clouds until at last it slid safely below the horizon. The night brought further chill, causing the city residents to gather what warmth they could salvage from their lives to make it through 'til morning.

Two men tried to do the same.

Mike stroked the smooth silky wood of the pool cue, trying to lose himself with memories of Lennie, the good cop, the good partner - the good friend. But Lennie was long gone; no longer able to help Mike with his screwed up feelings.

Bobby ran his fingers along the spines of the books that lined his shelves, trying to find himself in the speculation, wisdom and wonders they contained. But the black and white world of paper and ink couldn't untangle the mess of Bobby's emotions.

The days continued to be turbulent as spring tried to wrench the city from winter's grasp. Spells of sunshine would tempt fragile buds into exposing their precious petals, only to have them torn off by harsh breezes, drowned in a downpour or to wither in a sharp frost.

Two men were equally unstable; morning strength and resolution eroding under the trials of the day into evening weariness and weakness.

Mike swore it would stop, threw himself into work, believed it was over; his confidence bolstered by a new desk, a better understanding of Barek and a string of successful cases. Unless he ran into an asshole in authority, encountered corruption in the church, dealt with booze, bigots or babies. Then he would find himself pounding on Bobby's door.

Bobby vowed it was over, lost himself in work, was sure it had ended; his faith in himself restored by routine, his rapport with Eames and a succession of perps in custody. Unless he fell foul of red tape, got tangled in the web of deceit spun by those who abused their status, dealt with the incurable, the insane or the innocents. Then he would find himself hammering on Mike's door.

Night swallows day, only to be consumed by the resurrection of the sun; locked in the endless cycle of destiny and mutual destruction.

Not unlike two men.


	7. Chapter 7

Depleted, the weather had nothing left but mediocrity. The feeble sun failed to force its warmth through the flat clouds that hung lifeless in the sky. The wind lacked the energy to stir limp flags and loose dirt and moisture gathered with little enthusiasm for anything but drizzle. Caught in limbo between winter and spring, the city's inhabitants dragged themselves lethargically through drab days.

Mike stretched, feeling the ache of sore muscles, and flopped back on the bed. He rubbed his shoulder, trying to ease away the pain and stiffness in a muscle failing to heal through repeated abuse. The action made his hand cramp and he opened and closed his fist rhythmically, aware of the tenderness that made even the casual gesture of shaking hands a painful reminder these days.

Shaking loose the last of the cramp, he moved his hand to his face, rubbing vigorously in an attempt to get his blood flowing and brain working. His skin slipped and shifted under his hand, the beginnings of a beard scratching his palm reminding him he needed a shave. Reluctantly, Mike hauled himself into the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light highlighting just how much of a stranger the man in the mirror had become.

Hollow eyes in a gaunt face shadowed by more than a beard. Mike reached for his razor and began to shave, avoiding the eyes of his reflection.

Letting the tepid water flow over him, Bobby sank back against the cold tiles; the sharp chill, for a brief welcome moment, eclipsing the dull discomfort of his body that hot water had failed to soothe and cold to energise. Summoning up his strength, he reached for the washcloth, its wet weight feeling like lead in his hand and making tired muscles twinge.

Tentatively he worked the lather over his skin, trying not to see the bruises but unable to ignore them as the merest touch set them throbbing. Gradually soap suds concealed gold and green, violet and crimson under a uniform layer of white deception only to have the lukewarm stream reveal the reality. Bobby grabbed for a towel, seeking another form of cover- up and turned his back on the mirror. Recently his stubble had become more a case of avoidance than preference as he shied away from his reflection.

The occasional glimpse of sunken eyes and sagging face was enough to haunt him. Bobby headed into the bedroom for his clothes and further concealment.

The lengthening days felt like more hours awake to endure, less sleeping time to recover and the city sunk into apathy. Two men couldn't care less, but others cared more.

Mike limped into the squad room; sure that Bobby's boot had ruptured a tendon in his knee. Barek watched him swallow down three aspirin with his morning coffee and wondered for the hundredth time what the hell was going on. The Logan she'd expected and had met in her early days in the squad had disappeared to be replaced by a fractious man paying lip service to the job. Her various attempts to broach the subject had been met with irritation and aggression as he shut her down. Today was no exception.

"Mike..."

"Don't start!"

Mike slammed his folder shut and headed off to refill his mug. Barek cast a worried look over to Eames.

Bobby eased himself into the chair; sure that Mike had cracked at least one rib, if not two. Eames watched him wince as he reached for his mug and, yet again, speculated on what was happening to him. The partner she'd worked with for all these years, had come to respect and admire, had vanished leaving behind a mere shadow who still got the job done, but with none of the flair and enthusiasm she was used to. She'd deployed various tactics to uncover the truth but had encountered a wall of silence. Just like today.

"Rough night?"

Bobby picked up the phone and began to dial, ignoring her question, not even looking at her. Eames caught Barek's glance and they headed off to the ladies room and a conference of concern.

Deakins watched from his office and sighed.

He was at a loss, aware that something was wrong but unable to get to the bottom of it. He'd spoken to both men, individually and together, been as friendly, paternal and approachable as he could. The only response had been stubborn denial. Neither had turned up when he had arranged a 'boy's night out'. Job-wise, both men were on task but not to their usual high level of performance and he was reluctant to take a more authoritarian approach with these two, aware it could make matters worse.

Deakins sighed again.

Shades of grey deepened from dove to charcoal as night stole the light.

Mike paused, hand raised, outside Bobby's door. He wasn't going to come here again, wasn't going to do this again. But the one-nine precinct had yet to track down the boy's father, their interest was fading and neither the boy nor his father were 'important' enough to get the case transferred to MCS.

With an air of resignation, he knocked.

Bobby rubbed his neck as he leaned forward on the couch. The stalker case had proved to be nothing as predicted but he'd also failed to unearth any evidence of abuse, failed to convince Eames to carry on with the case and now he had learned that the family had moved to Europe, out of his reach. He rubbed his neck again, harder, hoping it would be enough, hoping the knock wouldn't come, praying it would.

It did, and wearily Bobby rose to answer the door.

Mike's punch lacked its usual force and Bobby easily caught his arm, easily caught the second swing, and, using his slight height and weight advantage, walked Mike backwards until he was up against the wall. He encountered less resistance than he expected.

Trapped between the hard plasterboard and the wall that was Bobby, Mike panicked, his flight-or-fight response kicking in, his foot kicking out. Pain exploded in Bobby's shin and a combination of training and self-preservation instinct led him to drop Mike's hand, raise his own in retaliation.

In that moment, the clouds chose to clear, revealing the moon, revealing much more.

Bobby looked at Mike's face; suddenly clear in the calm light. Saw all the hurt and lost hope, the pain and the penance, the fear and the fury that was all so familiar. He let his hand drop to rest gently on Mike's shoulder.

Mike looked up in surprise. Saw himself reflected in Bobby's eyes, saw recognition and understanding. He sagged against Bobby and the two men held each other tight for a long time. Mike was the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry. It's just sometimes ..."

His voice was muffled in Bobby's jacket. Bobby pulled back so he could look at Mike, his voice soft as he finished Mike's sentence.

"...it hurts so much. Tell me, Mike. Tell me –so I can tell you."

In the comfort of darkness, the moon heard their confession.

Birdsong and blossom greeted the sun as it rose in clear blue skies. Spring had finally come to New York City. And being spring, it was not without the occasional shower, brisk breeze or chilly evening but the inhabitants of the city were so glad to shed their heavy winter coats, to throw open windows, to eat lunch in the park that they weathered these minor inconveniences.

Things were different for Bobby and Mike. All it took now was a call, a word or a look and the evening would find them on a bench or in a bar, ties off and sleeves rolled up, taking comfort from the company. Nothing needed to be said because all was understood but occasionally Mike would raise his glass and make a sardonic toast.

"To mothers."

Bobby would snort, raise his own glass in reply.

"No, to their sons."

And two men would drink to that. Two similar men. Two friends.

"_Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light." John Milton, Paradise Lost _

A/N

Thank you for taking the time to read and review.

And thanks, as ever, to WendyCR72 for her beta work.

Usual Disclaimer: LOCI is not mine. Good job, too – poor Bobby and Mike have been through enough...


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